I Knew the Fear
by Moki X
Summary: Her eyes were crazed, but for a brief moment I saw the mother I used to know - and I knew she wasn't doing this out of anger, but out of fear. It struck me that she was scared just as I was, that she knew the fear of being the one left behind just as I did. And, because of that fear, there was nothing I could do to stop her.
1. Gone

**A/N: I don't own Shugo Chara! **

**Reviews are appreciated. ^^**

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I Knew the Fear

The house was silent. After a few hours of his incoherent babble, the occasional crash as he destroyed something out of drunken rage, the silence was almost, _almost_ peaceful.

But I knew nothing in this house could ever be truly peaceful.

I bit my lip to keep from crying. I wished I could go back, back to when it was like what a normal family should be. I pushed the thought away and stood up from my bed, grabbing a blanket, and carefully made my way down the steps to where my dad was probably collapsed, drunk, on an article of furniture.

My father had recently taken to drinking after fights with my mother. After he drank he would always end up wasted and passed out, and I would always come out from my room after deciding if he was really passed out or not to cover him with a blanket, as there was no hope of me carrying him to his bed. My mother would drive away after a fight and stay away from the house for a night or two - where she went was a mystery to me, but it was always better for them to be separated; it meant no fighting for a bit. And, if I blocked all memories from my mind, I could pretend our family was like everyone else's, pretend that the silence didn't mean a drunken father and a resentful mother.

As I turned the corner, hugging the blanket tightly, I almost ran into my mother's back. I recoiled, surprised.

_Why is mother home so early?_ I opened my mouth to ask her, but my words caught in my throat when I saw she was carrying a knife.

She made her way over to my father, who was splayed out atop the kitchen counter, a partially empty beer bottle still in his hand. My mother's mouth was tilted into a smirk, her eyes glazed over with a malicious light. My gaze traveled from the knife to my passed out father.

_No,_ I thought. _No, mama, please stop!_ I tried to force the words through the growing lump in my throat, but all that came out was a hoarse cry.

My mother's eyes snapped towards me, and, noticing my presence, the smirk turned into a sneer. "Your fault." she spat. "This'll be your fault. You're going to be the one who kills him." Her eyes flickered over my face, before she stabbed the knife through the countertop, barely a centimeter above my father's head.

I tried to take a step towards her, but my feet wouldn't move.

"Weak." she hissed maniacally. "You're weak, like your father. He wasn't strong enough to get me before I got him."

I wanted to shake my head, wanted to tell her, _'Father wouldn't ever try to kill you!'_ but my open mouth made no sound, and my head wouldn't tip to the side even in the slightest. She scowled, reading my thoughts through my eyes.

"Oh, yes, he would, Rima dearest. He would prepare first. He's too weak to take the consequences and kill me like a man." Her fingers traced the knife's handle before pulling it out of the countertop. "But I'm stronger than all of you. I can deal with being found out. _I _can kill him. _I'll _get rid of them all before they come for me." Her eyes flicked over my face. "Promise me, though, you won't let anyone get you." Then, a pause, as she reconsidered. "Oh, who am I kidding? You're going to be the one who's going to be stabbed in the back." Her tongue flicked across her lips. "Just like him."

I stood, frozen. If I was frozen out of fear or shock, I didn't know. I wanted to scream, to cry, to call for help, to stop her – to turn back the clock so we could be a normal family again_._ But I couldn't. I stood there like a statue, mind numb, _letting my mother try to kill my father._ I opened my mouth to tell her to stop and reached out a hand to her, even though she was across the room. I thought I felt a tear slide down my face, but I didn't care to check. My mother studied my face and knew I wanted to stop her. She only grinned sadistically and shook her head, a silent message to me. _'This is how it's supposed to be, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.'_

And, all too soon, she turned back to my father, raising the knife above his chest with both hands. I screwed my eyes shut, dropping the blanket and covering my ears with my hands, chanting in my head, _'it's a dream. It's a dream. It's a horrible, horrible dream'. _

But it wasn't enough to block out a weak, strangled gasp. And it wasn't nearly enough to block out the shattering of glass as my father released the almost-empty beer bottle he had been holding. And I knew that my mother had done it.

There was another silence – a silence that dragged on, wanting to stay forever, but was shattered by my mother's hysterical laughter.

"Open your eyes, Rima!" she screamed. "Open them!"

Yet as much as my mind protested, something made me obey her. As soon as my eyes opened, they flew to my father's still form. The knife was through his side - not a sure fatal point. He could possibly be alive.

But in the back of my mind, I knew he wasn't.

I glanced back my mom. Her eyes were wild, seemingly searching the room. She was breathing hard, her mouth parted slightly and twisted into a crazed grin.

She lifted the blood spattered knife to her chest. My eyes widened in horror. "You're going to tell them I killed him, aren't you?" she breathed in a low tone. I couldn't make myself speak, couldn't tell her we could fix this - because I knew we couldn't. I shook my head, only in the slightest, but I know she saw.

"Liar. Liar, liar, _liar._" she laughed. "My little Rima's a liar." she looked me up and down, as if imprinting my looks into her memory. "Don't touch me after this. Don't help me. I'll just do it again." Her eyes were crazed, but for a brief moment I saw the mother I used to know – and I knew she was doing this out of fear; a fear that I knew the meaning of all too well. She had killed him so she could be the one to leave before she was left; she killed him because she was _afraid_ of being left. And it struck me that she was just as I am - because I, too, knew the fear of being the one left behind.

The brief moment of understanding – of sympathizing through unspoken context – lasted for only a second before her eyes drifted shut, her lips twitching into a half smile, and then she plunged the knife through her chest.

She hit the floor with a soft thump, breathing frantically like a fish out of water. She coughed softly, a thin line of blood trailing from her mouth to her chin, dropping down and staining the carpet. Her breathing slowed, turning from fervent gasps to weak pants. Her eyes flicked to me and she gave me a tired smile - a smile that showed the motherly care I used to know. Her lips barely moved, her voice was barely heard, but somehow I understood it.

"Rima,"

She focused on my eyes, and for a moment it felt she was looking through my mind. Then, satisfied, she let her lids flutter shut. She remained still for a few moments while I waited; waited for her lips to move again, waited for her eyes to open, waited for her chest to rise and fall in the telltale rhythmic pattern that showed she was alive, but she remained still. I ignored the growing patch of red beneath her and stared at her motionless form, willing her to move, urging her with my mind to say something more.

But she didn't move.

And I knew that was last thing she'd ever say to me.


	2. Weak

I had no idea how long I stood there, still believing my mother would move again. I didn't do anything for a period of time; it was a time I couldn't, and frankly, didn't care to, keep track of. I watched the red patch grow larger, seemingly forming a wall around her punctured chest. It was a wall of the deepest red, such a color that I never wanted to set eyes on again.

Hours could have passed, but I didn't notice, nor did I care. My feet were glued to the floor, my hands still, my legs left with no feeling. The house was silent again, the quiet not even allowing itself to be broken by the shallow, barely-there, sound of my breathing. I tried to let myself have comfort in the noise, knowing that _I_ was still alive, but my frantic heartbeat didn't slow, even though I was stock-still.

A crack was heard outside the house, followed by a vaguely familiar pitter-patter of something hitting the roof. My mind was still swimming, so I didn't recognize the sound until there was another rumble that seemed to shake the house to its roots, its sound resonating through the empty room and echoing through my equally empty-feeling insides. The spell was broken and I was able to move, letting out a haggard breath I hadn't realized I had been holding since the rain started. I closed my eyes, feeling reality crash down on me before my legs gave out and I let myself slump onto the floor. The floor was cold against my cheek, a chill that I tried to direct all my attention to. The cold bit harder than it should have, and I knew it was because it came from a floor that held the blood of my parents and my mother's still form.

I suddenly couldn't see, as my eyes had become blurry from tears that flooded my tear ducts and spilled out onto my cheeks, so I didn't bother trying to keep looking. My eyes drifted shut as I cried to myself. _Mama, why did you do that? Didn't you think of me at all? What am I supposed to _d_o now that you're gone – what did you want me to do? _A strangled sob escaped my mouth, but I didn't allow myself to make another sound. Another clap of thunder was heard, the windows of my house rattling, and I shot up from my curled-up position on the floor, my already racing heartbeat doubling its pace. I sat, blinking at the shock, before realizing what had happened. I almost laughed. _I can watch my mom kill my father and not do anything, but when I hear thunder I can't help but want to hide. I'm pathetic._

My eyes, now curiously dry, unconsciously started drifting to my parents' still forms, but I didn't let it. "It doesn't matter now." I told myself firmly. "Stop being a baby and _move on_ – something like this was going to happen anyway." My lip trembled as I was on the verge of crying again, before I bit my inner cheek so hard I tasted blood. My eyes widened and I spit it out with no regard to where I was. I swallowed hard, putting a distance between my tongue and my now-bleeding cheek, not wanting to have anything to remind me of the incident.

I closed my eyes again, counting to ten in a desperate attempt to clear my mind, forcing my breathing to slow and my heartbeat to return to normal – or as normal as a heart could be after experiencing one of your parents murdering _–_ I forced myself to stop and open my eyes, wasting no time on doing what I should be doing with my parents' in their state.

I made my way towards the home phone in the guest bedroom to call the officials, to see what they'd make of it. I knew I could have gone to the kitchen phone, but that would mean seeing my parents and knowing that _I_ could have done something, knowing that _I_ could have possibly changed the way everything had turned out.

"Doesn't matter,"I quickly reminded myself again under my breath as I walked, mildly unnerved I had begun to resort to talking to myself for comfort. "It doesn't matter anymore."

My steps, no matter how slowly I walked, or how silent I tried to be, seemed to echo in the hall. Each step sounded like a firing of a gun, the emptiness of the house intensifying the soft padding of sock-covered feet against wood paneling.

When I finally reached the phone, my heartbeat had returned to its speeding pace, as if my heart planned to beat its way out of my chest. _It might as well,_ I couldn't help but think. _It'd be easier for everyone if I'd join my parents._ My eyes widened as the meaning sunk in and I gasped, horrified at that I had thought of that unconsciously. I frantically snatched the phone from the charger. With shaky, almost hesitant fingers, I punched in '911', before realizing I had no idea what to say. I hit the button to end the call before the waiting tone could even start, before dialing it in again on impulse. I restrained myself from hanging up again, but lost my nerve when the wait tone began. My thumb reached up to hang up again before it was answered by a soft yet firm-sounding voice of a female. "911, what is your emergency?"

I almost dropped the phone with surprise. I fumbled with the device, for all of a sudden it seemed to not fit properly in my hands. I set the phone on the small nightstand, cleaning my sweaty hands on my sweater before picking it up again.

"Hello? Is there any emergency?" called the voice patiently. I snapped back to reality, and replied shakily, "My parents. They're…" I paused and sucked in a breath. _Not dead,_ I thought to myself sternly. "They're hurt."

"Where are you, sweetie? Do you know what happened?" her voice was sickeningly sweet, as if she thought I was a five-year-old that could be knocked out with a strong tone. I ignored the anger that pulled at me and relayed my address to her, pretending I hadn't heard her second question.

"Can they say anything?" I had a feeling she knew the answer, though. "No," I hoarsely whispered. Her voice lowered as she hesitantly asked the next question.

"Are they breathing?"

There was a silence. "Honey, you have to answer me. Are they breathing?"

"No," I barely even breathed, but she heard.

"We're coming. Hang in there, sweetie, we'll be there in a bit." I nodded, even though she couldn't see me, and ended the call, almost robotically setting it back on the charger. I stayed where I was, trying not to let myself be spooked by the fact that set in – I was alone in the house, with two corpses of my parents. I didn't care to block the negative thought, instead letting myself be overcome with emotion. If I was scared or sad, I couldn't tell, and I don't think it'd make a difference either way.

"Doesn't matter, doesn't matter, and doesn't matter." I muttered my new mantra, each word feeling as if a needle were being driven into my heart.

Frozen to the spot, I stared at the phone, wishing everything would just _stop _so that I wouldn't have to deal with the police, with everything that came after – all the things that I knew were coming, but in my shaken state, I couldn't figure out what. I pulled in my bottom lip, running my tongue on the soft tissue. My bottom lip started feeling numb from the repeated motions from my tongue, the force of the touch gradually getting harder as I wracked my mind, frustrated, trying to remember what happens to orphans. But I couldn't remember anything; either I didn't know, or my mind was shielding it from me.

_Whatever happens, though, it doesn't matter._ I told myself for the umpteenth time, trying to convince myself that my words were true. _I can take it. I'm not weak like she said._

A pitiful sniffle was heard, despite my efforts to seem strong. Not that there was anyone to be strong for, I knew.

But pretending was the only thing I could do.


End file.
